


Unwanted Company

by jdmcool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:49:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmcool/pseuds/jdmcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock really did have such a good evening alone planned until Mycroft showed up. And he really does have every intention of kicking him out. Just not quite yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwanted Company

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Нежелательная компания (Unwanted Company)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197473) by [lyapsik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyapsik/pseuds/lyapsik)



> Sometimes things come across my tumblr dash that inspire me. This is one of those things. That and I really do love Total Wipeout and Richard Hammond.
> 
> ETA: Now with adorable [ fanart](http://suhnarl.tumblr.com/post/31518909921/inspired-by-dis-fic-unwanted-company) by Suhnarl. -first time getting fanart, so please ignore my glee-

Saturday was a useless day, especially when everyone seemed to have a date of some sort. Not that Sherlock was jealous of them, considering how pointless the acts of courtship was, but he didn’t like the way it interfered with his night. Lestrade was busy at work, something Sherlock didn’t really understand since the man didn’t have one interesting case. Molly was out with a new guy who had asked her out, meaning that he wouldn’t have his usual needs met at Bart’s the way he liked. And then there was John, who was out on a date with that girlfriend of his.

Sitting on the sofa, Sherlock hoped rather furiously, much like he had been for the past few hours, that something would come along to hold his interest. He didn't care if it was a girl's missing cat or a mass murderer suddenly on the spree. The only thing he wanted was for something to take his mind off of how very bored he was. Or rather, that was what he had hoped for before Mycroft casually entered his flat.

 “What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, hating himself for almost being thrilled by the idea of Mycroft stopping by.

Even if there was nothing on his plate for the evening and Mycroft did have a tendency to give him the most interesting of cases, looking forward to the sounds of his brother’s heavy footsteps was a low Sherlock wasn’t ready to accept.

Mycroft merely looked around the living room, his face a telling look of disgust over the living habits of 221B. “Visiting. Is John here?”

“No. He’s on a date with Cindy,” Sherlock said, picking up the remote and turning on the television.

“Sarah,” Mycroft corrected. “Although, I was merely asking about him to be polite.”

“Don’t you have other people you can harass?”

“From the way you’re sulking, one might think you don’t have any other friends,” Mycroft teased, looking about as pleased as the cat that caught the canary.

“From the way you’re harassing me, one might think the same thing about you,” Sherlock shot back before turning the volume slightly out of spite.

“Friends are vastly overrated, Sherlock,” he said, always having been the type to make acquaintances and associates rather than friends. Not that Sherlock didn’t understand the logic behind such a choice, not that he would ever admit to doing the same.  Using his umbrella to pick up a bloodied shirt from the floor, Mycroft grimaced before putting it back. “Besides, I thought it might be nice to make sure you aren’t doing anything... illicit.”

“I did have every intention of snorting cocaine off the arse of an underage prostitute, but then you showed up,” Sherlock said.

“So vulgar,” Mycroft admonished. Turning toward the telly with a sigh, he stared at it for a moment before asking,” What’s that?”

“A television.”

Moving to face the telly completely, Mycroft looked positively confused as he stood there, leaning, head cocked slightly to the side. “Stop being snide. What are they doing?”

“Trying to win money,” Sherlock said as though it was obvious. After all, he knew that his brother wasn’t prone to watching anything more interesting than the news, but the idea of televised contests couldn’t have been entirely lost on him.

“The things people will put themselves through for a moment’s notoriety and a few pounds.”

“John says ten thousand pounds is nothing to scoff at.”

“That nothing more than a suit, coat and a decent pair of shoes,” Mycroft scoffed.

“I tried telling him that, but he says not everyone was born into a family such as ours.”

“I feel I should take offense to that. Oh God.” Grimacing at the blonde contestant as she started off on the course before the klaxon, Mycroft closed his eyes as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “So much for all blondes not being bimbos. She didn’t even wait for it to actually start.”

“They say that every stereotype has a bit of truth to it,” said Sherlock, not bothering to hide his amusement with the ridiculous programme. “I believe she’s the truthful part about blondes being bimbos.”

“That’s terrible. Scoot over.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock did as he was told. He would’ve changed the channel just to make the man leave, but he wasn’t about to let Mycroft’s presence force him into missing out on such a terrible show, given that John practically had a list of things they were no longer allowed to do together, watching Total Wipeout being one of them.

“Don’t you have a telly at your own home?” He asked, still not overly thrilled with Mycroft ruining what was certainly going to be a quiet evening alone.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Yes. You’re squishing me and...”

Wincing as one of the bags knocked the girl off the beam, her head seemingly smacking against it on her way down into the pool, Sherlock lost all track of what it was he was even going to say. It was almost impossible to form words as he watched the slow motion replay, unable to resist wincing again, even when he came to the conclusion that it was merely her arm and not her head that hit the beam.

“This show is pure schadenfreude,” Mycroft said, eyes glued to the screen, only briefly closing them when she was knocked off the beam for a second time.

“At least they gave her a life vest,” he said, trying to find a bright side as she went off to take on the punching wall. Of, course, given how quickly she was knocked off of that, that wouldn’t be easy to do.

“She didn’t even get punched that hard,” Mycroft complained.

“Are you rooting for the abuse of some blonde from Wiltshire, Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

Looking back at the television screen and watching as she panicked at the sound of the motivator and fumbled awkwardly on and off the first big ball, Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose there is something about her that does inspire such feelings. After this, I want you gone.”

“Easy enough. I have better things to do than watch programmes such as... this, with you,” Mycroft said, sounding disgusted by the very idea of even sticking it out through the show as the girl pleaded for her mommy.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

* * *

“Is it wrong that I hate him?” Mycroft asked, listening to the final contestant give his list of amazing skills and attributes as though he was some real life game character. “I mean, I hold a minor position in the government, but he’s obnoxious.”

“Yes and you would know. Also, stop saying that. Nothing about you is close to being as inconsequential as you make it out to be. Not your job, your height and especially not your weight since you’ve recently picked up half a stone.”

“It was only five and a half pounds, thank you.”

Snorting as he rolled his eyes, Sherlock said, “Close enough.”

After all, even though Mycroft had a vast experience with a great series of diets, the man had never really caught onto the premise that the point of a diet was to keep him from gaining any weight, rather than the few odd pounds every couple of weeks.

“Are you this careless about measurements when you do experiments? Because that certainly would explain a great deal.”

“Your obnoxious prat is going to the next round,” he sneered, not even indulging Mycroft’s idea that he was careless with his experiments.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft shook his head. “How much longer until the next round? There’s only so many times I can watch people get punched in the face with Hammond’s voice in the background making witty comments.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re enjoying this?” Mycroft asked, sounding mildly shocked.

“No. The idea that Richard Hammond is witty.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement, since Hammond’s voice and wry comments were just as bad as the continual abuse due to the same bloody course was starting to get.“The fact remains, Sherlock, that this isn’t so much a show as it is a televised drinking game.”

“This would make for a terrible drinking game. People would die.”

“Are you saying that it would be unreasonable for people to want to be out of the misery that is watching this show?”

“If it helps, the next round is starting. It’s Crash Mountain,” Sherlock said, words dripping with false joy.

“Oh joy. Watching people get knocked into a pool of water by some foam covered pipe. I swear, after this, I’m leaving.”

Which was still fine with Sherlock considering that he was rather looking forward to being able to enjoy his night without Mycroft next to him, constantly making pithy comments about the various problems with the show.

* * *

Watching as that obnoxious prat finished Dizzy Dummies first after nearly being out of the running twice, Sherlock was beginning to understand Mycroft’s immediate distaste for the git. He truly was just a bit too good and too nice looking to be anything more than a disgusting worm of a human being.

“Alright. Now I’m starting to hate this git. Fastest time, first to beat Crash Mountain and Dizzy Dummies. If he wins, I’m shooting the telly.”

Leaning  back against the sofa, jacket resting on the arm of the sofa, shirtsleeves rolled up as he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, Mycroft didn’t seem any more pleased than he was. “If he wins I’ll let you.”

“He’s such a perfect little pillock,” Sherlock complained. “Who honestly feels like a fatty when they don’t work out for a few days?”

Sitting up straighter, Mycroft looked at Sherlock as though he had lost his mind. “Are you honestly asking me that?”

“Yes. Even you aren’t that unbearable, Mycroft. He’s like... Anderson with talent.”

“He’s probably a better consulting detective than you,” Mycroft said, doing his best not to smirk.

“Oh piss off.”

Watching as that little prat foretold just how successful he would be in the final round made Sherlock want to wretch.

“I want him to lose,” Sherlock said, sneering at the obstacle course Hammond was currently going over.

“You say that as though I don’t.”

“I hope the daddy wins.”

Rearing back, Mycroft scoffed. “No. The cover band boy. He’s... not an obnoxious twit.”

“No, He’s an average twit, just like all the other losers today.”

“It doesn’t matter so long as that prat loses.”

“Agreed. Oh please let him lose.”

Leaning forward, both of them watched anxiously as the cover band boy slowly made his way through the course. It certainly seemed to be a bit of a valiant effort, and considering that he hadn’t completely screwed up at every turn, it was a pretty impressive run. Not that it was anything compared to the daddy, who made his way through the entire thing without so much as breaking a sweat from the looks of it. For a man in his fifties he was oddly fit. Sparring a glance at Mycroft, he decided to keep quiet, something that had nothing to do with the look his brother had given him.

With that obnoxious prat being the only left to go, Mycroft and Sherlock were practically sitting on the edge of their seat as his run began. If either of them were praying men, their combined desire for that prat to lose would’ve been enough to motivate to such an action. Still, from the looks of things, it wouldn’t be necessary.

Watching as the prat reached the Tarzan swing a bit too late to even come close to beating the daddy’s time, Sherlock couldn’t resist letting out an ecstatic cry of joy before hugging Mycroft happily. From the looks of them one might have thought that they had just watched some great national achievement, rather than some poor sod lose Total Wipeout. It wasn’t until Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway wearing her dressing gown, looking for all the world as though they had somehow intruded on her evening did they realize how horribly interested they had become in that show.

“What on Earth is happening that would make you two cause such a fuss?” Mrs. Hudson asked, obviously a bit concerned about the situation she had walked in on.

Looking at the arm he had slung around his brother’s shoulders, Mycroft practically embracing him, Sherlock tried to come up with some sort of explanation about would make their unusual show of emotion make sense. “Uh...We were...”

“Watching Total Wipeout,” Mycroft muttered, soft pink tint to his cheeks the only sign of how humiliated he truly was. “Dreadfully sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well that’s certainly not what I would’ve expected. Alright, just keep it quiet in future.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson,” they said in unison.

Waiting until she was gone, Mycroft rose to his feet, straightening his clothes. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on the screen where that ridiculous trophy was being present to the winner rather than paying any mind to the fact that his brother seemed rather ready to leave. After all, the man was supposed to be gone long ago to begin with. Waiting until the end was just Mycroft's way of being annoying, forcing Sherlock to share a sofa with him for so long.

“Leaving?” he asked, trying his best to sound uninterested in it all.

“Personal matters to attend to.”

“Such as?”

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft sighed. “I need to use your facilities.”

“Oh. So you’re not leaving?”

“Do you want me to?”

Looking back at the television, Sherlock shrugged before grabbing the remote. Flipping through the channels until he found something remotely interesting, he said, “I suppose you can stay until Poirot goes off.”

“If we’re watching Poirot I don’t think I want to stay,” Mycroft said as he made his way to the bathroom.

An understandable choice considering how faulty mystery shows tended to be. Either they were horribly obvious or made no sense in the end, no matter how one tried to explain it away. Still, it was better than nothing and if Mycroft was going to continue to annoy him with his presence, Sherlock was certain he could find a way to suffer through it until the show ended. After that, he would happily kick his brother out since he really did want to be left alone.


End file.
